


Our Days Are Yours

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Memories, Multi, Photographs, Photography, Yearbook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia finds the camera in her grandfather’s attic and she knows that with this and a little ingenuity, she can create the perfect memories for her friends as they move towards graduation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Photography 101

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as five separate ficlets for the fullmoon_ficlet community on Livejournal.
> 
> Please note that this storyarc includes conversation about the deaths of canon characters that I have speculated may occur during season 3 of the show.
> 
> I don't own Teen Wolf, but it's such an amazing world, I can't resist playing with it. Also, this is absolutely unbetaed, so all errors are mine all mine!

Lydia finds the camera in her grandfather’s attic. It is heavy in her hands, as alien as if it came from another planet with its lack of a viewscreen and innumerable strange dials and numbers to be set. She holds it up and stares through the viewfinder, wondering if the lens sees the world as perfectly she does.

She takes it to school and meets with the photography teacher who pretends not to be shocked to see her in the art wing. She drops phrases like _the psychological effects of light exposure upon portrait subjects_ and _the chemistry of alternative photographic development technique_ and smiles prettily; two hours later she has had a quick tour of how the camera works, how to properly load and unload the film, and a promise that she can use the dark room whenever she likes as long as all chemicals are put back to normal when she’s done, and nothing explodes or catches on fire. Lydia has no fear of unknown technique; she has books and the internet, after all, and anything can be researched.

Photography is simple, after all. It is methodology and science formed into art.

She loads her first roll of film, black and white, designed for an indoor exposure. She must be careful. Stingy. She cannot simply snap whatever comes to mind. Each picture must be perfect, capturing what she sees at that moment.

And Lydia knows what she wishes to collect with the camera’s eye.

It is said, in some societies, that film captures the soul in every picture made. For the past years, Lydia’s entire world has revolved around her friends, what has become her _Pack_. Her life has changed, her world has become something far different than she ever expected.

In a few short weeks, they will walk across the stage, take their diplomas, and scatter across the country as if they had never belonged to the same strange, odd, _distinct_ club at all. They will sign yearbooks with smiles and laughter, and they will pretend that it is something more.

But it _is_ something more. And therefore it _needs_ something more.

Lydia has no need for the yearbook club. She clears her desk at home, making a place to lay out pages and empty spaces. She decides how she will arrange people, what order they should appear in and with who. She writes meticulous notes on a small pad of paper that is tucked into her camera bag so that she cannot deviate from the plan. It is scripted. Perfect.

The Beacon Hills yearbook tells the story of their high school years. It tells of acne and lacrosse, choir and science club. It shows who went to prom, and who tried out for the play.

Lydia’s yearbook will be personal. 

She places the camera on her tripod and turns it toward her bed, setting the timer to give her several minutes to prepare herself. Then she sits and combs her fingers through her hair, tugging tangles free, letting the red strands curl around her face. 

She stares just past the camera, hands curled in her lap, a bland smile on her face. She thinks of Stiles trailing after her, so certain that she never noticed. She thinks of Allison barging into her life, twisting it in new, incredible directions. She thinks of the woods, of being naked and lost. She think of Peter. Of Erica. 

Of Jackson.

She doesn’t notice that her smile slips away, the polite, quiet mask erased in honest reflection.

When she hears the click of the camera, Lydia nods with satisfaction for her self-portrait.

Her yearbook will capture the soul of the Pack.


	2. A Portrait of Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia tries to arrange a still life of three people who never seem to stop moving.

“Stop that, you’re tickling me.” Allison laughs as Isaac’s hand falls across her belly, teasing at the skin bared when her shirt rides up. Scott wraps his arms around her, pinning her to let Isaac’s fingers drift and Allison can’t help but laugh again.

“This isn’t exactly what I’d planned for your portrait,” Lydia says idly. She can wait as long she needs for them to settle down. The lights are warm and bright, the living room cast in color despite the darkening skies of dusk outside. “This isn’t a video, nor a magical camera. Do you think the three of you might manage to sit quietly for once?”

Allison gasps, trying to stop laughing. “Of course, of course. _Boys!_ ” 

They stop when she chastises them, of course. They would do anything for her. Allison’s boys, Scott and Isaac, both firmly wrapped around her little finger. Lydia rather thinks that they enjoy being wrapped there together, equally as interested in each other as in their Allison.

“Stand up.” Lydia sets the camera down gently on the table, then waves her hands to order them to get up. She waits until they arrange themselves off to one side, one of Scott’s hands still lingering at Allison’s side, his other entangled with Isaac’s fingers.

They are never not touching. Lydia envies their affection.

She misses that sort of affection in her life.

“Sit there, Scott.” She points at the couch and Scott sits. Lydia can’t help the small smirk that tries to escape; Allison really does have him well trained. “Allison, sit next to him. Not—” she raises one hand as Allison moves into place, halting her before she can get too close. “Not on top of him, of course. Next to him. And Isaac…”

“Yes?” There is something terribly earnest about Isaac, but also terribly lonely. Lydia remembers what he was like when he first joined the Pack, so desperate to be a part of something. Hungry and damaged until he found his place with Scott and Allison.

Lydia smiles gently. She has a fond spot for poor, sweet, damaged Isaac; she always has. After all, she loved Jackson, the most damaged of them all.

“Lie across them both,” she directs. “Allison, hold him, and Isaac, lay your head in Scott’s lap.”

It takes time for them to arrange themselves amidst more laughter and tickling, but finally Isaac lies there, his eyes closed, Scott’s fingers drifting through his curls. Allison lightly strokes his arm as she leans against Scott’s shoulder, her arm around his back, fingers visible against his hip on the other side.

Lydia tweaks the lights, arranging them to get the perfect shadows. Then she steps back and raises the camera to her eye.

They are quiet, for once. They cannot stop touching each other, points of contact constantly evident as Isaac sighs and Scott smiles, and Allison murmurs things Lydia cannot hear. She watches, capturing the moment first in her mind, then slowly presses the button and listens to the click.

Twice more, from slightly different angles, ensuring she has the perfect shot, then she lowers the camera and tucks it into her bag. She switches off the lights, one at a time, lowering the room into a post-dusk haze.

Scott leans down, capturing Isaac’s mouth in a long kiss while Allison strokes Isaac’s haunch. One of them purrs, a low, rumbling, happy growl.

They have forgotten Lydia is here, but she doesn’t mind. They remind her that it is possible to have and to hold and to be happy.

She shoulders her bag and says nothing as she slips away. She has captured this moment; she will never forget it.


	3. Candid Moments in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia knows that the camera will capture what everyone sees, but Derek and Stiles won’t acknowledge.

It’s impossible to _make_ Stiles sit still. Much like it’s impossible to _make_ Derek smile.

Lydia, however, is patient, and as the Pack bustles around for Sunday dinner she curls up on the sofa, idly turning the camera in her hands, feeling the weight of it. She knows they are aware of her. Her perfume gives her a unique scent, layered over the soap, the shampoo, the faint scent of her skin beneath it all. Jackson told her all about it when she asked, trying to understand exactly how the delicate act of scenting worked. 

However, aware is one thing… actively paying attention to her is something else entirely.

If she stays still enough, quiet enough, the activity in the room will overshadow her presence, and she will be forgotten and be allowed to observe.

Scott, Allison, and Isaac all jockey for position, somehow managing to set the table together without mishap, despite jostling and teasing. Boyd is the quiet one, taking plates and silverware from the sideboard and passing them to the teasing trio.

Stiles bustles around the kitchen, visible over the island that separates kitchen from living room. Derek stands to the side, arms crossed, and he watches.

Lydia watches him watching, pays attention to the way his gaze shifts, following the path of Stiles’s hand when he gestures with the spoon, a fleck of spaghetti sauce flying off to stain the wall. She raises the camera slowly, settling it against her face before she freezes again, one hand on the lens, finger resting against the button. She twists the focus, zooming in on Derek’s face, waiting for that moment that she knows will come.

His mouth slowly tilts up, his tension eases. A slow, lazy, fond smile rises, his gaze relaxed and open. She presses the button carefully, but the click still sounds loud to her ears.

Tension returns and Derek’s head swivels; he is glaring at her, but no one else seems to care. Lydia smiles and shifts, targeting Stiles.

He is larger than life. She has always known this, since they were children together. He thought she never noticed him, but he was impossible to miss. She simply wasn’t interested in him as anything more than a friend, and it was kinder to let him believe she was oblivious. Lydia hated to say _no_ to someone she actually quite liked.

She is pleased with where he has found himself. This is where he belongs, and he has settled in as if he owns this place. This world. He has no fear when Derek growls and his animation provides a bright counterpoint to Derek’s often sour countenance.

Capturing Stiles will be difficult, but not impossible.

Nothing is ever impossible for Lydia.

He is multi-tasking over the stove with one pot of pasta, a pot of sauce (with meatballs and sausage and pepperoni; the scents are an assault on Lydia’s nose and she wonders how the wolves bear it), and a steamer full of fresh broccoli and cauliflower. The story he is telling is something about a movie or a TV show—Lydia isn’t sure which, and it doesn’t matter anyway—while Derek listens and nods.

Every once in a while Stiles glances over his shoulder to catch that small smile that Derek gives him, and when he does, his entire expression lights up. Words pause, and a faint flush rises to his cheek. Then he jabs the spoon in the air, sending droplets flying, and the conversation begins again.

That is the moment that Lydia captures, the moment when Stiles actually _stops_.

She only captures two shots tonight. Derek is aware of her intent now, and she is positive she has the perfect moment for Stiles. She will find out for certain in the dark room, but she already can see them in her mind’s eye, and she knows how she will arrange them in her yearbook.

Derek on the left page, looking to the right, that fond tease of a smile lingering on his lips as he watches Stiles, who is on the right page, affection clear in his eyes as he stares at Derek.

Perhaps when they see it they will know what everyone else already sees so clearly.

Some things need to be subtle. Quiet. 

Telling Derek what to do results in growls and arguments, and a quick, barked order to never say that again.

Telling Stiles what to do ends with Stiles going in completely the opposite direction (which is why telling him to go away kept him close for so many years).

But letting them see for themselves, letting them come to their own decisions, that will work. Lydia is sure of it. After all, once Stiles gets an idea in his mind, he is tenacious. Lydia knows this, and is banking on it.

This is her graduation gift to him.

Sometimes you have to capture a soul to give it to someone else.


	4. In Memoriam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hardest people to photograph are the ones who are no longer there.

The hardest people to photograph are the ones who are no longer there.

Lydia can see the ghost of Erica in the way Boyd stands, the way he holds himself, both when he thinks no one is looking, and when he’s all too aware that they are. He is perfectly stiff, strong and solid when people watch him. No one can see past the facade. It isn’t like Derek’s sour growl, but rather an impenetrable brick wall of nothing. But when he pauses in the hallway to look at the memorial set up for Erica, the blandness melts away into a sorrow so thick Lydia can feel it from across the hall. 

She can’t photograph that; it’s too personal. Too intrusive.

She captures the wall instead, the solidity that Boyd presents when he sits in the back of the classroom, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze falling somewhere to the left of the teacher as if he doesn’t care. Or perhaps his mind is simply elsewhere, or elsewhen.

For Erica, Lydia waits for the right moment. 

Boyd pauses at Erica’s memorial. It is a wall filled with photographs from her life, from when she was a gap-toothed first grader, up through her transformation into the confident young woman that the school barely had time to know before she was gone. He reaches out, moving past the last photograph taken of her, all white teeth and bright smile.

His dark fingers touch the edges of the frame on a smaller shot, one Lydia knows is from their freshmen year. Erica is paler, somehow smaller. Shy and quiet, but the smile is still the same. His fingertips stroke along the edges of her lips, and Lydia captures that as quietly as she can. Erica as she began, with Erica as she ended in the background, and only Boyd’s hand to carry her ghost along.

Erica was easy compared to Jackson.

Lydia sweet talks her way into being the one to clean the items trapped under glass in memoriam for Jackson. He was a star, an athlete, and all the school knows of his end is that he died. They created a special display at the center of the lacrosse case, retiring his number.

She could simply photograph the case. The glass would be like the image Jackson created of himself, reflecting what others wanted to see back into their eyes, until they only saw the illusion. Never Jackson. Except Lydia… she has always known Jackson, and she refuses to allow the reflections to get in her way.

She waits until after school and smiles prettily at the janitor who gives her a duster and a bin for trash. Once he is gone, she carefully unlocks the case and opens it wide.

Jackson’s jersey hangs front and center, the back facing forward to show the number and his name. Lydia touches it, leans in close, and for just a moment catches a scent of something that reminds her of Jackson. It isn’t as strong as the t-shirt she keeps under her pillow, but it is enough to make her heart twist. She stands on a small step stool in order to reach in properly, so she can rearrange things to her desire.

The keys to the Porsche are first, dangling from where his hand would be, after she twists the arm up to one side as if were naturally held out there. Newspaper within the shirt adds depth and bulk to a body that is missing. A rose rests against his arm, a remnant of a first date long ago. The tiny plastic newt upon his shoulder is Lydia’s joke. She carried it with her everywhere and called it Jackson in the early days after he transformed from Kanima to Wolf. He claimed to hate it, but he had laughed every time she petted it and had a conversation with it instead of him.

She loved him. Loves him still, if the ache in her heart is true. Lydia can’t imagine meeting someone else like Jackson, no matter how far her travels take her. And they will take her far from here.

This is her Pack, and her family, but without Jackson, this is no longer her home.

Lydia checks the light behind her (fluorescent, overhead, flickering slightly but not badly enough to affect a single photograph), then repositions the step stool. When she climbs onto it, her shadow falls across the board, fitting in where Jackson’s arm curls around her silhouette. Her hand shakes as she raises the camera to her eye and carefully focuses.

It takes finding just the right angle so that her shadow has raised arms, but the camera doesn’t seem to be a block jutting out of her shadowed head. She snaps twice, then shifts, then does it again. She steps down and moves the stool before climbing up to repeat the process again. And again. 

It is overkill, perhaps, but this picture, above all others, must be perfect.

All she has left is Jackson’s ghost. She refuses to leave it behind when she goes.

When she hears the janitor whistling in the distance, it is time to reset. She tucks the camera away, then quickly pockets the keys to Jackson’s Porsche. The newspaper is tugged from the jersey, but she leaves it hung as if he were still there, mid-gesture, the plastic newt still on his shoulder. It adds life to the display, infusing attitude.

Jackson was always about the attitude.

She clicks the lock into place and returns the cleaning equipment to the janitor. As she walks away, she can feel someone watching her, and the urge to look back is overwhelming. Despite everything she knows of mythology, she does, her hands clenched in small fists as she looks at the display case. Shadows flicker amongst the light, giving the illusion of movement to the jersey.

Lydia raises the camera quickly, capturing the thought that Jackson is waving goodbye.


	5. The Story of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of the Pack is finished; all that remains is delivering it into their hands. And saying goodbye.

“I don’t understand.” Allison turns the book over in her hands as if she can somehow divine its meaning without opening it. “What is this?”

“Our yearbook.” Lydia places a book in each set of hands in the room: Allison, Isaac, Scott, Stiles, Boyd, Derek. She keeps one for herself, and she leans in to place two atop the logs stacked in the fireplace. “We graduate tomorrow morning, and I thought we should sign them tonight.”

“You already signed my yearbook,” Stiles points out. “Yesterday morning, before the graduation rehearsal started. I’m pretty sure you wrote _Stiles, don’t be a dick._ ”

“It was _Stiles, don’t think with your dick_ ,” she replies easily. “And that was for public consumption. These yearbooks are _ours_.”

“I have my yearbook.” Scott picks his Beacon Hills yearbook up and shows it to everyone.

Lydia sighs. It shouldn’t be this difficult. “Just open the one I gave you. _Look_.”

Derek already has his open, fingers skating across the pages, resting against a photograph Lydia can’t see from this angle. He glances up at her, his expression drawn and sour, lips pressed together. He slams the book shut and leaves it on the sofa when he goes into the kitchen.

It doesn’t hide him from anyone; they can clearly see him over the countertop. It does let him ignore them in peace.

“This is why you wanted to photograph us,” Isaac says quietly. He leans close to Allison, wrapped around her, his hand reaching for Scott, linking the three of them. As they page through the book, Lydia doesn’t have to look to know which images they see. The book is carefully constructed, telling the story of those in this room, and those who are missing.

Stiles looks at the book in his lap, then over at the opening into the kitchen, then back to the book in his lap. He presses his hand against the flat page while his foot jitters. “I have to go,” he finally says, jumping up.

He doesn’t go far. Lydia can see him, half hidden by the way the wall juts out, leaning against the refrigerator, hands moving as he talks quietly to Derek. She keeps her own book cradled close, like armor (or a loved one) against her chest.

“And the ones in the fire?” Boyd stares at them, his own book closed on his lap. Untouched.

She smiles very slightly. “You know who those are for.”

“You printed books just to burn them?”

“Hush.” Allison presses her finger to Scott’s lips. “I think it’s sweet and sad.”

Lydia can’t argue that description. She doesn’t want to let her book go, but when Boyd gently tugs, she lets him hold it for her. She kneels before the fireplace, the long, slender match between her fingertips. She lights it, reaching in to help the fire catch. Two homemade firestarters are first, dripping red wax amidst the sharp scent of cinnamon. The kindling starts to smolder as she holds the match to the edges of book. When the flames lick up, she drops the match and closes her eyes, one hand pressed to her mouth to hold back the sound that wants to escape.

“Shh.” 

Arms wrap around her and she curls into them, struggling not to sob, body shaking with the need. She will not give in, cannot give in, even though Stiles strokes her hair gently, and helps hold her between him and Derek as they half carry her to the sofa. He keeps murmuring soft hushing noises, and she wants so desperately to let go and sob.

The fire crackles and pops and she flinches at the sound. “I’m okay,” she says, although she still clings to Stiles.

“No, you’re not,” Derek says. He pets her hair, long slow soothing strokes that tangle with Stiles’s touch. That alone makes her start to smile.

“No, I’m not,” she admits. “But that’s all right.” Lydia turns, her eyes opening to find Stiles close. She kisses his cheek, then carefully slips from the sofa to find a place on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest. Derek and Stiles fill the void she left behind, close to each other, but in reach of her as well, still offering comfort.

She reaches back and idly grabs their hands, taking them from her hair and placing one atop the other, leaving them with hands entangled over Stiles’s knee.

It pleases Lydia that for once they don’t try to slip apart afterwards. Some things may be ending, but perhaps others can finally begin.

She raises her chin, as strong and stubborn as she has always been. “This is my gift to you. The story of us: who we’ve been and who we are now, and who we’ve lost along the way. Because damn it, I _will_ miss you idiots after graduation.”

“We have summer,” Scott points out.

“And Thanksgiving,” Allison adds.

“And if you think you’re getting out of bringing a dish for Christmas, you obviously aren’t thinking straight,” Stiles points out, nudging her shoulder.

“We’ll be here.” Derek’s voice is low, firm. In control. “Whenever you come back, we’ll be here.”

“Did you see this one?” Allison laughs, turning the book so Isaac and Scott can see it. “I remember the one where it’s just us, but Lydia, you must have spent so much time stalking us with a camera to get all these candids.”

“They aren’t all mine. I found some,” she admits, because she has included older photos, from before the Alpha pack changed their lives.

Boyd opens his book again, a small smile as he looks through the pages. Derek and Stiles lean close together as they share one book between them, Stiles’s lips almost touching Derek’s ear as he murmurs something too low for Lydia to hear.

She stares at the fire, and feels the ghost of a brush against her shoulder from someone not there.

This is her Pack. This is home.

And yes, she’ll be back. Someday.


End file.
